


First Of May

by 456639



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Gore, Kinda, like really sad, repost from old account, very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:38:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6948238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/456639/pseuds/456639
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>very sad i'm sorry</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Of May

**Author's Note:**

> so, like, i had this on an old account last year and found it in my folder and thought it was too good and sad not to post on this one. beat me up please and i hope you enjoy.

The sky is a layered cotton monochrome of varying shades of grey, lightning flashing between said layers as though what ever higher power I believe in this week is honoring the ascension of Hollywood’s biggest star. Due west, though, as I turn to the left, still holds the pastel orange of sunsets I used to watch from start to finish during a much less demanding period of my life. It’s sad when I think about how truly often we get evening storms, not because the city falls into a gloom, but because the sky turns to this striking contrast that I always seem to find myself too busy for.  
I regret neglecting to make time for spring sunsets.  
However, were I pressed to pick a single regret, it would be my negligence to spend more time with this boy who has sacrificed dry knees to kneel overtop of me as I lay in the street post hit-and-run impact entranced with the clouds.   
“Hey!” he snaps, putting his hands on my chin and redirecting my attention towards him. “Dan, you need to stay with me.”  
I blink up at him a few times. “I /am/ with you.” I tell him. “I’m right here—see?”  
“Don’t do that.” Phil pushes my hand down as I wave to him. “Don’t move at all, just-“  
“Why?” I ask about as innocently as a four year old.  
My more than flat mate is quiet for a few seconds, pulling his hand back from mine though it sticks a bit from the cherry red that I assume came from my chin. “Why?” he repeats, almost in disbelief. “Dan, we’ve been over this. There was a-“  
“Shh,” I interrupt, pushing at him. “You’re making my head hurt.”  
“That’s not /me/.” He argues. “You know that.”  
I do know that.  
I know also that this is a truly awful situation, as evidenced by not only the blood on the asphalt and the borderline hysteria in my friend’s demeanor, but, too, by the fact that I can hardly feel any of what I am clearly supposed to be feeling. It’s all supposed to hurt—the bruises and the fractures and the scrapes—but aside from a very slight aching, it doesn’t at all. This hints at an outcome a bit too morbid for my liking, and while I am fully aware of everything that is happening, something in the back of my mind keeps pushing that if I pretend that I’m not, then I won’t be. If I look at the sky and fake like I’ve no idea about what is clearly about to happen, my thoughts will all be consumed by that mentality, and that state seems so comforting that I have literally grown obsessed with it over the past twenty minutes.  
None of it is for my sake, though.  
Twenty minutes, may I add, is not a long time at all, but oh does it seem like it when every single second of them has been consumed with death and how to avoid thinking about death so as not to push the reality onto others.  
“Do you remember when we used to do this?” I start, wanting to subtly convey that it is, in fact, about that time.  
“Do what?”  
“You know,” I fight the urge not to get choked up as he does, and god, is it hard. “Sit outside and just talk and watch the sunset.”  
“Stop,” he returns simply.  
“When we had that flat with the balcony and we would-“  
“Dan,” he puts his head in his hands quickly to hide the tears. “Please stop.”  
I look over at him silently, studying him as he starts to fully break down at the true severity of it all. He’s thinking the exact thing I am, though he doesn’t want to buy into it, not that I blame him. It’s so hard to come to terms with death, because it truly is such a terrifying, intangible thing, but I am so scarily at ease with it now that I don’t fear it anymore, I fear how ready for it I am. Thoughts will pop into my head about all the people, the places, and the simple things that I will miss, but whenever they do, I feel ready to let them go. There is no fear of it anymore, because it’s inevitable now, and the lack of fear is absolutely terrifying. Nonetheless, I understand exactly where his fear is coming from, and though I can’t stop it, I can make it so that when this happens in the next few moments, he will remember not this moment, but the fond things I bring up in it. “I miss that.” I continue, not receiving a response. “I miss spending time with you.”  
Through his hands, he responds. “You literally spend all of your time with me.”  
That’s not true, but it’s hardly far from being so. “That’s busy time.” I oppose. “It doesn’t count.”  
Again, Phil doesn’t respond.  
The breath I take in to continue is a wheeze at very best, one that tells me that it truly is time to go. “We should do that right now.” I rasp, catching his startled attention.  
“What?”  
My hand shakes almost episodically as I take his and tug on it a bit. “Look at the sky.” I command. “Spend time with me.”  
The eye contact we make gets the message across fully, and this I know because he actually lies down beside me. “It should only be a minute before-“  
“Shh,” I interrupt his quavering words again, knowing as the shivering and the wheezing start to become more prominent that I haven’t got a minute. “Just spend time with me.”


End file.
